Say That We're Sweethearts Again
by Lauralot
Summary: It's never easy to reconcile a friendship, especially if you broke the friendship by breaking your friend's ribs. Sequel to The Accidental Therapist.
1. Intention

AN: Hello! Chances are if you're reading this, you've read my previous stories. If you haven't that's fine, but in order for the fic to make sense to you, you should know that in my previous stories, Crane and the Joker had a relationship that ended with a rather violent falling out, and for a bit afterwards the Joker tried to kill him before getting bored and giving up.

The story title comes from the _Batman: The Animated Series _episode 'Harlequinade.' It's a song Harley sings regarding her relationship with the Joker, and if you search "Say That We're Sweethearts Again" on Youtube, the actual episode clip is there, the one by Little Yaoiste, should you care to see it.

That being said, although the song itself is romantic, the fic is not. It's about rebuilding the friendship between Jonathan Crane and the Joker, not the romance.

* * *

It began, as the relationship had begun, with the Joker breaking into his cell. It began, as the friendship—if it could be called that—had begun, with the Joker creeping into his bed and waking him up.

Unlike the last time he'd been woken up, however, he wasn't grabbed and shaken into consciousness. Rather, it was a slow awakening, beginning when his sleep was disturbed by the sound of a lullaby being hummed and gradually pulling him closer and closer to consciousness, until he was jolted awake by the realization that he was being hugged.

"Evening," the Joker said, as though his companion had not just violently started, hugging a little tighter as he stroked the scars on Crane's arm with his free hand. "Or, morning by now, I guess. Hey, can I ask you something? How much can you actually feel with all these scars?" He pushed down on one of the deeper ones, Crane feeling nothing but the pressure.

Not that he told him that. Verbally, he didn't respond at all, only began trying to thrash his way out of the Joker's grasp. Whatever the clown wanted, it could not be good.

He couldn't believe that he'd actually been stupid enough to think the Joker would keep his word about leaving him alone. God knows he'd been vigilant at first; jumping at the slightest sound, coming up with defense strategies for attacks at various locations in the asylum, staying up nights on end because he was too afraid of being assaulted to sleep, no matter how exhausted he was. That last one had led to being prescribed sleeping pills, pills that were even now weakening his body's resistance against the Joker, making sleep seem far more appealing than protecting his life. He should never have agreed to take those drugs. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

Still, it had seemed for once in his life the Joker would keep his word. Weeks had gone by, long enough for Crane to go from emaciated back to his usual, if still underweight state. Weeks where he hadn't seen the Joker once, no more than the occasional glimpse in the cafeteria or coming across each other in the rec room. But on those inevitable occasions, the Joker actually hadn't done anything. No trying to draw Crane's attention, no attempts at conversation or any form of interaction, aside from the first time they'd happened upon each other and he'd waved.

Not that there hadn't efforts to get his attention in other ways. Even in the room's current darkness, the pictures lining the walls of the cell were still visible. There were over a hundred now, a new one—or often, several—appearing each day, draw in crayon or markers or whatever the Joker had on hand at the time. Which sometimes appeared to be lipstick or barbeque sauce, or what looked horribly like blood. The fact that the content of the pictures wasn't threatening or otherwise terrible—though some, like the drawing of the Joker and Crane frolicking in a field, accompanied by a rather fat unicorn, were odd enough to be disturbing—didn't make them any less irritating.

He'd complained about the pictures once, and was promised that something would be done about them. Nothing was, of course. He suspected the Joker was paying the night guard off in some way. Though, the pictures weren't always placed in the room at night. Maybe the clown had figured out how to get into the ventilation shafts and crawl to this cell whenever the mood struck him.

Not that the Joker's picture delivery method was particularly important at the moment. The fact remained that the Joker had broken his word now—not twisted it, as with the drawings, but truly broken it—and if he didn't get out of here now, he was almost certainly going to die.

Unfortunately, his strength had never been a match for the Joker's, and even with desperation and adrenaline on his side, the sleeping pills were draining his will to run away far too quickly. Of course he had to get the kind that not only knocked you out, but _kept _you out. It was a wonder he'd woken up to begin with. He fought with all he could, but he imagined keeping hold of him for the Joker took about as much effort as it would to drown a kitten; the kitten could thrash with all its might, but it was never going to resurface.

"Relax, Jonny." He could only have been struggling for a few minutes or so when the Joker managed to get both arms around him, pinning his own arms to his sides and effectively ending the fight then and there. Crane tried kicking and biting, but the Joker evaded the attacks so easily it seemed trying had hardly been worth it at all. "No, relax. I'm not gonna hurt ya. I made a promise, remember?"

_A promise that also said you'd leave me the hell alone._

"I just wanna talk, that's all. Is that such a crime?"

That was probably the thing he hated most about the Joker, even over the using, betrayal, near killing, and then attempted killing; the way he acted as if he _hadn't _done those things. Not that he didn't acknowledge they'd happened, but pretended they shouldn't matter. As if he could waltz in here after all he'd done, and Crane was simply supposed to have gotten over it, just like that. It was like infants and object permanence; if they couldn't see it, it wasn't there. Joker wasn't distraught over all the suffering he'd put Crane through, and so Crane by extension shouldn't be either.

_Egotistical lying son of a bitch._

He gave up on trying to break free; there was no chance and he was only tiring himself out even more. At this point, his best chance was to be still, focus on keeping consciousness and conserving his energy, and waiting for an opportunity to present itself. That said, drugs or not, it was nearly impossible, forcing himself to lie still in the Joker's arms.

"Good boy." He sounded as if he was congratulating a dog he'd just taught to sit. One of the arms wrapped around Crane loosened, hand reaching up to stroke his hair. Crane was unable to keep from shuddering, and the arm remaining around him tightened, holding him closer. "How've you been, Jonny?"

He glared, not bothering to answer. He was sick of the clown's games. Whatever he'd come in here to do, he needed to _do _it, and skip the foreplay. Even if it resulted in torture or death. _Especially _if it resulted in torture or death. He wanted the pain over with, not to sit around for hours becoming more and more afraid while the Joker made small talk.

Come to think of it, that was probably what the Joker wanted; to horrify him as much as possible before he got to whatever sick thing he'd planned.

"Jonny?" The hand stroking his hair moved, waved in his face. "Hel_lo_? Cat got your tongue or what?"

No response. He reflected that the Joker would probably hurt him even more for refusing to play along, but he was tired of being the clown's doll.

"Ah. The silent treatment, I take it. _C'mon_, scaredy cat, don't be like that. I don't want there to be any hard feelings between us."

He found it ridiculously hard not to scoff at that.

"Look, I've kept my promise, haven't I? I mean, I really wanted to use that whole 'torch the scarecrow' plan. That was clever. That's a big sacrifice to make, Jonny. You should be grateful. I mean, I get that you're mad about the 'trying to kill you' thing, but quit living in the past."

He started stroking Crane's hair again, and Crane, too busy staying coherent enough to glare to notice the Joker's movements, started violently at the touch.

"Shh." He kept stroking, eyes meeting Crane's with sort of an understanding smirk on his face. "Shh, shh. So you're afraid, then, and not pissed?" His hand trailed from Crane's hair to his chest, feeling the heartbeat there. "Yeah, your pulse is doing that thumping thing again. Hey, remember when we did this at the hos—"

And that was crossing the line. It seemed Scarecrow was able to contain himself through the shock of waking in the Joker's arms, and being forcibly held and touched, but bringing up their sex life was going too far. He bolted upright, pulling himself out of the Joker's grip with sudden force that would have surprised him had he not been so focused on grabbing the Joker's throat and tearing it out with his bare hands.

Not that he did that, of course. Taking the Joker by surprise was easy, if the method was something like taking four or five people and having them all dive at him from different directions. When there was only one person coming from straight in front of him, his reactions were much faster. His hands closed around Scarecrow's wrists before he could make contact, knocking him back on the bed and moving swiftly on top of him, pinning him down with humiliating ease. "Jonny, that wasn't very nice."

"Get out of my room, you son of a bitch."

"Oh. You." He rolled his eyes. "Nice to see you too, Crow, but I came here to see your better half."

"I think," he said, trying to pull his wrists free and only succeeding in hurting himself. "That whatever you've got to say to him also affects me."

"Be that as it may, brainless, I'd rather talk to the one who, you know, _listens _when I say things. You, on the other hand, have exactly two moods that I've ever seen: total whore or murderous idiot, and, uh, neither of those is of use to me now."

"Too bad. We're a package deal."

The Joker sighed, leaned down. His hair was less than an inch from brushing against Scarecrow's face, brown eyes boring into blue. "Jonathan."

Just one word, but it was enough to bring him back out. Damn the Joker for having that much power over him. Damn him for letting the Joker get close enough to have such power in the first place. The fact that he couldn't fully hate him, even after all the Joker had done, made him hate himself all the more.

"Welcome back." The Joker grinned. Apparently he could tell them apart by expression. Yet another reminder of how sickeningly close Crane had let him get. If he lived through this, he'd never made that mistake again. Trusting others was asking to be betrayed. "Jonny, could you do me a favor and make sure your split personality doesn't bother us again?"

"He's not a spli—"

"I know, I know, if he was you couldn't be aware of him and all that crap. But look, Sybil, there's a huge rift between the two of you and I think it's gotten wider since last I had the pleasure of speaking to him." He thought for a moment, eyes darting back and forth as his tongue ran over his lips. "Come to think of it, it's probably _'cause _of me that it's wider." His smile broadened.

Crane was not at all surprised that the Joker would find exacerbating mental illness amusing. Not that he was mentally ill, but no one else seemed to understand that. "Why are you here?"

"Because." The Joker released Crane's wrist, stroking his face with one hand while he held him down with the other. "_Je m'inquiète pour toi__, mon ange._"

"Liar."

"Am not." Judging by his tone, he was offended, but the hand brushing against Jonathan's face stayed soft as ever. Which, annoyingly, made staying awake that much harder. Stupid drugs, making falling asleep while been pinned down by a psychopath such an appealing prospect. "Look, I miss you, Jonny. We had fun together, didn't we?"

"You almost killed me." Jesus Christ. Was he going to kill him or not? Dying would certainly be better than listening to this crap. He had no interest in renewing their relationship, not now or ever. Well, somewhere deep, deep inside there was a part that might be interested, but he refused to ever let that part see the light of day.

"Yeah, yeah, and that's the point you always return to." The Joker sighed. "Look, I'm sorry about what happened."

"No, you're not. You never feel sorry for anything you've done."

"I didn't say I was sorry for my actions." He blinked, as if the concept of such a thing was entirely foreign to him. Which it probably was. "I'm sorry about the situation. Which, as far as I'm concerned, is about as good as it gets. So take it or leave it, Jonny."

"I'll leave it, thank you very much." Unbelievable. He actually expected all to be forgiven just because he'd 'apologized.' _Stupid bastard._

"Look, I'm not expecting you to forgive me, scaredy cat. Just to talk to me again. Is that so much to ask?"

"Yes."

He sighed again, eyes showing what Crane would have believed was genuine hurt had it come from anyone else. "I've kept my promise, haven't I?"

"Not anymore."

The confused look was back. "Jonny? This isn't violating the agreement. I know you're rather, uh, medicated at the moment, but you must realize that I haven't done anything I promised I wouldn't."

His expression of anger and contempt immediately gave way to disgusted disbelief. "You promised you wouldn't sneak into my cell."

"No, I promised I wouldn't sneak into your cell and _hurt you_. And I haven't. I didn't even touch Scarecrow, though he wasn't covered under the promise and was absolutely asking for it." Having paused momentarily in confusion, he resumed stroking Crane's face. "So I haven't done anything I told you I wouldn't."

"I believe the promise covered emotional hurt as well." He turned his head away from the Joker's hand, and the Joker didn't follow.

"If this innocent little conversation is screwing up your feelings, that's hardly my fault. I'm being nice here, Jonny." The hand that had been stroking him took Crane's own, thumb running gently over the nail gun scar. "I've been nice, haven't I? Don't you like the pictures?"

"No." After he'd realized that the staff could do nothing to keep the pictures from his room, he'd tried taking them off the walls, only to find them back up each morning. Even when he'd tried ripping the drawings, or crumpling them up, they'd be back the next day, smoothed out and taped together.

"But they're a sign of affection. I'm going to make a thousand for you."

"Why a thousand?" he asked, though he knew he shouldn't encourage this.

"Because when you make a thousand drawings, you get a wish granted. Duh. And I wish for us to be friends again."

"First of all," he said, unable to keep from rolling his eyes. "If you tell wishes, they don't come true. And secondly, it's a thousand paper cranes, not a thousand drawings. Idiot."

"Oh." The corners of his mouth turned down slightly. "I don't know origami."

"Well, it doesn't matter, because I'm never being your friend again." It was bad enough that he'd been stupid enough to make the mistake once.

"You say that now. You try denying our connection when there's a thousand paper cranes backing me up." He was smiling again. "Cranes…I like that. That sort of coincidence means it's _gotta _work."

Wonderful. As if he didn't put up with enough scarecrow jokes from the clown, there were bird jokes now. "You could make a thousand cranes from aluminum foil, if you wanted, and I still would not be your friend."

The Joker stared, tilted his head. "Why aluminum foil?"

Idiot. "Because it tears easily. It'd be harder."

"Ah. Well, the point is, I'm going to find a way to reconcile things between us. Don't worry, it'll be so wonderful you won't even be mad about the whole 'trying to kill you' business."

"Right." He yawned. "Somehow, I doubt that."

"Oh ye of little faith." The Joker squeezed his hand, but not painful. "You can go back to sleep now. I just wanted you to know that I'm gonna be your friend again, even if it kills us both."

If he was a little less tired and a little more suicidal, he would have hit him. "I'm not going to sleep with you sitting on top of me."

"Oh. Right." He shifted off, lying down beside Crane to hug him again. "How's that?"

Would the audacity never cease? "I'm not sleeping with you here _at all_, stupid."

"That's real nice, Jonny." He hugged tighter. "Now I'm not leaving until you go to sleep."

"Well then, I guess we'll both just lie here until we die."

The Joker laughed. "Somehow, I doubt that." His hand was stroking Crane's hair again, and he was humming something which Crane realized, after a moment's thought, was the song "Stay Awake" from _Mary Poppins_.

"I really hate you." It was getting harder to keep his eyes open. He supposed closing them wouldn't be that much of a problem, as long as his mind stayed alert.

"I know. You won't forever, though."

"Will so." The words were slurred, slightly. Crane wished he could bring himself to care.

"No, you won't, Jonny. Hell, I bet you don't even completely hate me _now_." Receiving no response for a long moment, he loosened his grip slightly, shifted to stare at his companion. Crane's eyes were closed, his breathing slower. "Looks like I was right."

Jonathan, being asleep, didn't argue. The Joker sat up, kissed him on the forehead, and made his way out.

* * *

AN: The fat unicorn in the Joker's drawing is a reference to a fan art done for my story _Act Like We Are Fools _by sapzberry. It's a picture of the Joker sleeping, and on the wall there's a drawing of a unicorn. It's on her Deviantart account, her username there is atroxbasium if you care to see it.

'Brainless' refers to _The Wizard of Oz. _'Sybil' refers to the book/movie _Sybil_, the true story of a woman with sixteen personalities.

What the Joker says in French is "I care about you, my angel." Thanks to Jaensdenim for the translation!


	2. Compromise

AN: So the always awesome sapzberry made an fan art of the drawing Joker put on Jonathan's wall (the one with the unicorn) and it is of course fantastic. Should you care to see it, this is the link (take out the spaces): http :// atroxbasium. deviantart. com/ art/ BBQ-SAUCE-112923337 That is what the Joker draws like. Imagining waking to find something like that in your room each morning. I don't see what Jonathan's complaining about. And yes, the writing is in barbeque sauce. Amazing, no?

This chapter takes place a few weeks after the first. That becomes obvious after a bit, but I thought I should warn you in case the beginning was confusing.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

The first thing Jonathan became aware of was that his bed seemed to have gone missing.

He knew it even without opening his eyes. Or perhaps he'd simply been moved out of the bed; that would make more sense. If he had been moved, it didn't seem to be out of his bedroom. He could recognize the scent of the apartment he'd been living in for the past three weeks, a combination of must and disinfectant and old cigarette smoke, from not so long ago when smoking had still been permitted in the building. And the floor under him was hard and cold; wooden, which only the floor in the bedroom was, every other room had worn brown carpeting.

He opened his eyes. The pounding in his head indicated that he'd either had a wild drinking binge the night before that he had no recollection of, or that he'd been drugged. The latter seemed more likely. He tried to ignore the pain in his head, the way the light filtering in through the filthy window seemed to stab at his eyes, and glanced around.

He was lying where his bed would usually be, only the bed was gone. As was the dresser, and from what he could see in the half-open closet, the clothes hanging there had been taken as well. The only things left in the room, in fact, were the shoes he'd kicked off before getting in bed. Someone must have broken in.

_Well, no shit_, Scarecrow said, ignoring the stiffness and general misery coursing through their body as he sat up. _And I'm sure you've figured out whom?_

_Obviously._ His disorientation upon standing was another sign that his system was processing some sort of drug. And he highly doubted that any ordinary thieves would take the effort to drug their victim instead of shooting him, or knocking him out with blunt force. Nor would they take something as large and cumbersome—and worthless—as a bed. The Joker, then.

The Joker had appeared in Crane's cell for the next two nights after the time he'd announced his intentions; the first bringing ice cream he'd stolen from the kitchens, which Crane did not eat, and the second bringing flowers he'd taken from the asylum grounds. Crane had also refused those, and informed him that, while there was no way in hell he would ever forgive him anyway, there was even less chance if he kept bringing gifts. The Joker had agreed, though he lingered on, bothering Crane until he fell back asleep.

The day after that, the Joker had escaped, taking Harley with him.

No one was quite sure why. Harley hadn't informed any of them, not even Isley, who'd developed a very close friendship with Harley despite her contempt for the Joker. The best bet—which, as of late, had been supported by new reports—was revenge against the mob. Jonathan wasn't sure exactly what the Joker's relationship with the mob was these days, but he knew that when the clown gave orders, they listened, if they didn't want to die. Whatever the connection, the mob seemed to have angered the Joker in some way, and one could hardly turn on the news these days without hearing another mob member had gone missing, or been found dead.

The day the breakout occurred, however, Jonathan hadn't known any of this. What he did know was that he didn't want any part in the Joker's mad scheme to reconcile them, and that the disorder caused by the Joker's escape would be the perfect time to work on getting out himself. He hadn't broken out on the same day, only taken advantage of the staff's distraction to take the things necessary to get out. In the aftermath of an escape, particularly of someone as dangerous as the Joker, people seemed content to believe they'd misplaced their pass keys in confusion, the idea that someone might have taken them never crossing their minds.

Two days later, he was out.

He'd wondered, for the first day, if his friends might not come after him again, as they had when he last broke out. They hadn't. He assumed this was because either last time he had been at death's door, and now that he wasn't about to die, they trusted him to fend for himself, or that they thought he'd broken out to return to criminal activity, and they didn't want to interfere. It was rare for the villains to work together as they had to retrieve him. It had never been done before, and never since. Relations between the criminals had always been good—sort of an 'us against them,' Jonathan guessed, 'freaks' against regular society—but they tended to leave one another's professional enterprises alone. Aside from an occasional partnership, everyone seemed to recognize that generally, they all had different goals that they shouldn't try forcing together. It would only end violently.

If he'd been able to particularly care, it would have touched him that they were able to put all that aside when they tracked him down. Jonathan, however, still resented being brought back to Arkham—and by extension, the Joker's latest scheme—and was unmoved by the entire ordeal.

He hadn't told them about the Joker's insistence that they become friends again, so they weren't about to rush out to save him from the Clown Prince of Crime and whatever grisly methods he'd use to restore that relationship. Mentioning the pictures had been bad enough; it took three hours and ever other villain to convince Isley that she could not break into the Joker's cell and kill him. Jonathan was still humiliated enough that all the stress he went through in the last breakout had reduced him to a pathetic, childish mess who'd actually looked to the _Batman_ for comfort, so he wasn't about to go whining to them about this latest development. He could fight his own battles.

Not that he'd had to. He expected the Joker to have tracked him down the instant word of his breakout hit the news stations, but the past three weeks had gone by without incident, until now. The time had been peaceful enough that he'd lingered in Gotham, instead of following the original plan, which had been to run like hell. He'd never particularly wanted to leave the city, anyway; despite all the misery he'd endured here, it was still better than Georgia. And still his home.

_Told you we should have left_, Scarecrow muttered as Jonathan made his way into the bathroom. Everything was gone from there as well, aside from what was bolted down. He held in a sigh, went back into the hall. His alter ego was right, of course. His primary objective should have been leaving, and this insanity was a consequence he could only blame himself for. Well, himself and the Joker. He should have foreseen something like this, realized last night that his tea tasted unusually bitter instead of chalking it up to running out of sugar and drinking it down. At least he should have noticed how exhausted it had made him.

The living room, as he was not surprised to find, was bare. Couches, television, DVDs and books, they were all missing. As were the table and chairs from the kitchen, and the refrigerator. Even the pantry had been ransacked. Well, now he was just being tormented for the sake of torment.

_I'm going to kill that son of a bitch._

As Scarecrow went off on the methods of torture he'd use, each sounding more deliciously frightening than the last, Jonathan spotted the card on the counter. The ace of hearts, a car key sitting beside it. And on the card was scrawled an address.

Thank God he'd fallen asleep with his clothes on. He couldn't think of a less appealing prospect than tracking down the Joker in pajamas.

* * *

He found the car with little effort, and was happy to find the gas tank full, as the address took him outside the city limits, a good distance away.

As he drove, part of him cautioned that he'd be driving straight into a trap. The Joker may not want to kill him anymore—and who even knew if he was being honest about that—but the man was a dangerous psychotic, and his idea of reconciling could be just as deadly and painful as his tortures. His things weren't _that _important; better just to get out of the city and start over.

He didn't, though. The fact of the matter was that he didn't want to go through the effort of beginning again. Besides, the Joker had his research, and he refused to lose that.

The address took him to a house, far enough outside the city to have a decent-sized yard. Huge, in fact, especially when compared to the house itself, which was a small, one story thing made up of green shingles and yellow wood. Not a garish, bright yellow, but a light, mild shade. His sister's room was painted a similar color, or it had been last time he'd been in his mother apartment. Years ago. It was probably different by now.

He got out of the car and headed to the house. He'd just noted that there didn't appear to be any other vehicles in the driveway, when he heard something behind him, a familiar sound he couldn't quite place, and turned around.

"Hello, Jonny."

Of two things he was immediately aware: One, the Joker was riding a horse, and two, the Joker had no idea how to ride a horse. The sight of the animal trotting around—the familiar sound he'd heard—while the Joker struggled to stay upright would have been comical, were it not so confusing and bizarre. Oh, this was going to be a long day. "Where are my things?"

"Fantastic, isn't it?" the Joker asked, risking taking his hand off the reins for a minute to stroke the horse's mane. "It's worth over six figures."

The horse was beautiful; tall, strongly built without being bulky, and deep brown, nearly black. He was clearly well-cared for, which Crane took to indicate that he hadn't been in the Joker's care for long. The clown didn't seem the type to abuse animals, but he did seem neglectful. "Why do you have a horse?" he asked, in spite of himself.

"Well, you see—" The Joker began with the hand gestures he was seemingly unable to speak without making, and nearly fell off. He grabbed the reins again, straightened out. "See, one of the mob fools I took down bred race horses. Now, I was gonna cut this one's head off—" he stroked the horse's mane again, "—and stick it in the guy's bed before I took him out. _The Godfather_, you see?"

"Yes."

"Right. Everybody appreciates a good movie reference. But then I thought, hey, who do I know that rides horses? So it's yours, scaredy cat. I've been thinking up ways to make you see that, uh, my intentions are sincere, and I thought, what little girl _doesn't _want a pony?"

"That's a thoroughbred." There was a time when the Joker calling him a girl would have offended him. He couldn't force himself to be bothered anymore.

"A horse is a horse. Don'tcha like it?" Before Crane could respond, the Joker straightened, continued. "Oh yeah, I haven't told you the best part yet. And this is when I realized it's fate for you to have it, okay? His name's Nightmare. Cool, huh?"

"What do you expect me to do with a horse?"

The Joker shrugged. "Whatever you want, angel. Ride it, make sandwiches out of it, use it as a getaway car—"

He rolled his eyes. "As if he'd be nearly fast enough."

"Hey, it's a _race horse_," he said, as if that made all the difference in the world. "And wait, there's more. Here." From somewhere in his coat he pulled out a bag, the decorative kind used to put gifts in, and extended it out to Crane, as far as he could without upsetting his balance. Against his better judgment, Crane took it.

He pulled out a rose. For the first time, it wasn't yellow, but a deep orange.

"Orange for apology," the Joker explained with a wide grin when he met Crane's questioning glance.

"Orange represents passion."

"Right. Because I'm passionately sorry. Anyway, there's more inside."

Crane pulled a tube of a medicinal-looking substance from the bag, stared at it. "What's Mederma?"

"You use it—" the Joker looked pained. "You put it on your scars and it's supposed to make 'em stand out less." He seemed disgusted by the very idea. "And hey, you're not allowed to use it on scars _I _gave you, got it?"

Crane was too busy hiding his elation at the thought of lessening the scars to come up with a sarcastic response. It took a few minutes and a good bit of will power to keep himself from leaping into the Joker's arms and forgiving him then and there. Not that he could ever forgive him, not really. But for a moment, it was tempting.

He collected himself, looked back up with a suitably contemptuous gaze. "I don't have anything necessary to take care of a horse."

"Thought of that. I just took all the stuff out of Nightmare's former owner's stable."

As if it mattered. What was he supposed to do, leave the horse in a parking lot? Not that he was about to accept, beautiful as the creature was. "I live in an apartment, you idiot."

Joker stared, expression blank. "No, you don't."

"Yes, I do. You should know, you robbed me this morning."

"Oh. _Oh._" Comprehension dawned on the Joker's face. "Honey, I didn't rob you. Harley and I just transitioned things for you." He smirked at Crane's confused look. "Check the bag again, Jonny."

He put his hand in, felt it close around something small and metal that he knew was a house key before he even looked. He stared down at it for a moment, then to the house, silent with disbelief. When he turned back to the Joker, the clown was dismounting. "C'mon, go check it out."

* * *

It was nice on the inside in the same way it had been on the out. Nothing about the paper and painting on the walls, or the floor rugs was particularly lovely or eye-catching, but it wasn't bad. Nothing that made him want to take a match to it, anyway. And all of his things were there, in one piece and un-tampered with.

Not only un-tampered with, Crane realized, as he walked around the kitchen, but placed in the exact order things had been in his apartment. Exactly, right down to the spices in the cabinets. The Joker confirmed it when he pulled a handful of pictures taken in the apartment from his pockets and offered them to Crane for purposes of comparison.

"Why?" he'd asked, astounded.

"Because you're an incredibly anal guy, Jonny, and I thought it'd be better for the transition if everything was where you had it."

_Assuming I agree to this, _he thought but did not say, merely carrying on walking, stunned. Not _everything_ was exactly how he'd left it, as he discovered when he opened the refrigerator. There was a pizza sitting inside—covered in anchovies, he noted when he lifted the lid—and the freezer was absolutely stuffed with various containers of mint chocolate chip ice cream.

He was still stunned speechless. The Joker seemed to accept this and didn't speak either, only walked beside him, smile growing by the second. He came to the bedroom, flipped on the lights, and was unable to hold back a gasp of surprise.

For the first time, something was hanging from his canopy bed—not curtains, but a strand of origami cranes, strung together and wrapped around the curtain bars. Judging by the number of times the cranes wrapped around the bed and the variety of paper and color he saw, there were definitely a thousand. Some were folded on colored paper, some from loose leaf, and a large one that appeared to have been made from a sheet of newspaper.

And every tenth crane or so, there was the glitter of aluminum foil.

The connection between his mouth and his brain seemed to have broken again. "I…you…this…wh—"

"I think you know what my wish was?" the Joker asked, giggling as Crane stammered.

"I thought you couldn't fold cranes," he managed when his mind began to work once more. He commanded himself not to be moved by the gesture. _It's a trick, Jonathan. He just wants things to go back to how they were so he can hurt you again._

And he knew that. But still…

No. No, there was no still. So what if a part of him continued to feel for the maniac? He wasn't about to give in.

"Harley taught me." The Joker's mouth twisted a bit as he spoke, as if he didn't like admitting that even he had to learn things, on occasion. "She made about half. She thinks it's good for us to be friends again. I made all the aluminum ones, though," he added suddenly, sharply, as if it lives depended on that fact.

"But it's only been three weeks."

He shrugged. "I don't need a lot of sleep when I go on killing sprees. Must be the adrenaline rush or something."

_Something like psychosis? _Scarecrow stopped him from saying it out loud. He needed to get out of this situation, decline the gifts in a way that wouldn't get him gutted. Because he couldn't say yes. That would be encouraging this madness to continue, risk slipping back into compliance. Already part of him wanted to forgive everything, but he wouldn't. He couldn't, because letting the Joker into his life again would probably kill him this time, and even if it didn't, it would certainly hurt. "Not that I don't appreciate the effort, but I thought you promised there'd be no more gifts?"

"Oh, these aren't gifts, Jonny." He answered calmly, he'd likely been expecting the question. "I wanna bargain with you."

"I'm not going to be your friend again." He said it almost in reflex, tensed.

The Joker only nodded. "I get that you're hurt. Look, angel, I'm not asking you to be my friend again. Not yet, anyway, I know you need time."

Crane stared, something in his stomach twisting. The Joker couldn't be serious. This was too…compassionate for him, too controlled. _Don't fall for it, Jonathan. It's just another trap._ "Then what do you want?"

"For you to _talk _to me again. Stop trying to run, and stop acting like every second of my presence is akin to, uh, being denailed or something. I just want us on speaking terms. And that includes your alter ego, all right? Are we agreed?"

_Like hell, _Scarecrow said instantaneously. Crane didn't relay the message, only stood silent in thought. On the one hand, the Joker would certainly twist this arrangement, like he had all the others. On the other hand, if he ran again the Joker would find him, that was a given, and probably hurt him for trying. And it wasn't as if saying yes would be agreeing to friendship. It would be better to agree.

_Fuck that, _Scarecrow said. _Seriously, fuck that. Jonathan, there's no way you can agree to this._

_What choice do I have? If you want to fight him, be my guest._

Scarecrow was silent.

"Agreed."

"Zip a dee doo dah." The Joker took Crane's hand, Crane neither moving to help or hinder him, and shook it a few times. "Enjoy your house. Harley's probably going to drop by tomorrow. She misses you."

"Wait a second," Crane said, as the Joker started out of the room. His insides were still twisting in tension over just what he'd agreed to.

"Yeah?"

"Where's the horse going to sleep? There's no stable."

The Joker pondered, licked his scars. "Dunno. You're gonna have to figure that out on your own." Off Crane's indignant look, he giggled. "Can't make things too easy for you, can I?"

"I hate you."

"Love you too, angel." The Joker took off down the hall and dodged the shoe thrown at him without looking back.

* * *

AN: The ace of hearts in tarot relates to home environment, and represents visits or a change of address.

For those who don't know, there's a scene in _The Godfather _where the mob cuts off the head of a man's race horse and puts it in his bed as a threat. On the sandwiches line, horse meat is delicious. I know, that's a terrible thing to say, and horses are pets and friends and all that, but it's just like ham but with less fat. I had it in Paris and I'm addicted. Also, my dad used to work for a chicken company and took me to play with the baby chicks, so I'm used to bonding with sweet, adorable things before I eat them.

In many of the comics, Scarecrow has a horse. I'm not sure if it's named Nightmare or if that's the name of his crow, however.

Denailing is ripping the finger/toenails out.


	3. Cautionary Tale

AN: All of my knowledge of horses and how they work comes from Wikipedia and various sites through Google, so yeah. If it's horribly misinformed, I apologize.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

_You had better not fall for this, Jonathan, _Scarecrow informed him the moment the Joker had gone. _It's bad enough that you agreed to his conditions in the first place, but I swear if you start trusting him again I'll find a way to strangle you._

Jonathan wondered, briefly, when Scarecrow had moved from being little more than an ordinary interior voice and into something that actively threatened him. Not that he really needed to ponder it; of course it had happened when the Batman had poisoned him. It had been about the only positive thing to come from the brain damage, even if Scarecrow could be nearly as irritating as the Joker at times.

_I heard that. And I'm serious, Jonathan. You don't believe this bullshit, are you?_

_Of course not._ He shook his head at the idea, making his way to the nearest window to see if the Joker wasn't still lurking outside. From what he could see, he wasn't. _As if I'm ever going to trust him again, after that?_

_Yeah, that's what you thought for approximately twelve seconds after he poisoned you, too, _Scarecrow pointed out as he headed toward the door._ Remember how that turned out?_

_Well, I've learned from that experience, haven't I?_ His hand grasped the doorknob, began to turn. Scarecrow halted the movement, leaving him standing there, frozen. _What?_

_You're way too happy, given the situation. That's what._

_I'm too happy? I just had an encounter with the Joker that actually worked in my favor for once. That didn't end with pain or death. Why shouldn't I be happy about not dying?_

_Because._ He offered no other argument, but when Jonathan pointed out that he was acting like six-year-old, he relenting in releasing his hold on the body and allowed Jonathan to open the door. The air outside was cool, but not unbearably so, Nightmare still in the yard, picking at the grass.

"What am I going to do with you?" he asked aloud. The horse had no answers.

In the end he decided on placing him in the garage. Obviously he couldn't go into the house, and there was nowhere else to protect him from the elements. As long as there was something to be used as bedding, it should be all right. At least temporarily. Nightmare allowed himself to be led up the drive without complaint, and Jonathan found upon opening the garage door that the Joker had placed all of the horse's things inside there anyway. There were bales of hay stacked to almost the ceiling in one corner, a few of which he disassembled and spread out as bedding.

Nightmare watched, calm for a horse confronted with a stranger, he thought. Then again, any animal that let the Joker on top of him had to be remarkably placid. Or perhaps the other horses he'd been around had been unusually skittish. Certainly the police horse had, though that may have had something to do with jumping on it in a drugged fit while its former rider was still hanging from the stirrups. He removed the saddle and bridle from the horse, brushed his hair.

_Jonathan. Are you becoming attached to this thing?_

_Of course not. _He stroked Nightmare's nose and was nuzzled back against in response. He really was a beautiful horse, strong but slim and a lovely shade of near black all over. Jonathan was not the sort whose heart melted at the sight of animals—in that sense, he wasn't sure he had a heart to melt—but had he any sugar cubes on his person, Nightmare would definitely be getting one. _Besides, it's not the horse's fault that the Joker brought him here._

_You're playing right into his hands, you idiot. Do you think he didn't know you'd give in the second you had a moment alone with the pony?_

_He's not a pony._ Jonathan retrieved the hoof pick from the jumbled stack of supplies the Joker had left on the floor, made his way back over to Nightmare. _And I'm only taking care of him because I don't see the point in making an animal suffer. Besides, you like him too. _And he did, Jonathan could tell. Part of Scarecrow wanted to climb on the horse's back, even without a saddle, and go racing through the streets of Gotham, severing the heads of passerby with a scythe while cackling madly.

Jonathan would have settled for a good ride around the yard.

He stood on Nightmare's left side, facing the tail, and stroked down from the shoulder to the fetlock. Once his hand reached there he squeezed, hard but not painfully so. "Up." The front leg lifted without complaint, and he took it, examining the heel of the horse shoe with the hoof pick. It was tight, but as he began cleaning the hoof he reflected that even if the shoes were in good condition, he'd have to find a farrier to trim the hooves. And a vet.

_I _told _you you're becoming attached, _Scarecrow said, sulky, as Jonathan moved to the back leg. _You should be worrying about how we're getting out of this place, not the horse._

_If we get out, he'll just hunt us down again. _Jonathan ignored the unease spreading in his stomach at the thought. _And his good mood probably won't hold, in that case._

_His 'good mood' worries me more than anything else._ He had to admit that Scarecrow was right on that one. The Joker could be nice if the inclination struck him; their relationship had been nothing but example after example of that. But there was always the break, the moment when the good mood broke, and the suffering he went through afterwards seemed proportional to how nice the time before it had been. Giving him a house was one of the nicest things the Joker could do, so the break after this would probably kill him.

And why give him a house, anyway? Houses had to be consistently paid for, and he doubted the Joker would be providing. Unless that was a joke to him, giving Jonathan a house and saddling him with the expenses. But where had he gotten this place? Were the former owners dead, or say, dangerous mafia members that would kill him the instant they returned home to find him here? He wouldn't put that past him, but it didn't seem the clown's style.

Whatever the Joker was up to, the speculation and what remained of the drugs was giving him a headache, so after making sure Nightmare had sufficient food and water, he went back inside and headed for his bed. He tried to ignore the admittedly eye-catching way the window light reflected from the aluminum cranes before he drifted off.

* * *

He'd forgotten how much he liked riding horses.

It had been so long since he'd last ridden one, and that time he'd been drugged and unable to appreciate it, so he really hadn't had a proper ride since college. He'd forgotten the feel of it, the strange mix of comfort and exhilaration, speeding around on such a powerful, deadly animal with no fear. Even beyond the sense of power, it was, well, fun.

If he was thinking about things as a psychiatrist, he might have concluded that the reason he enjoyed it was because it was a thing that he'd learned in one of the most pleasurable times of his life. College hadn't been as good as his time as the administrator or his brief stint as a professor, but the time from freshman year to the completion of his doctorate had been the first period of his life that wasn't miserable. The reminder of happiness (or at least lack of suffering) combined with the sense of power would obviously translate into a love of riding horses.

Psychiatry was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment, however. Possibly because both he and Scarecrow were sharing control. Scarecrow had never much been one for thinking about the deeper meaning to things. Riding on Nightmare's back as the horse cantered around the yard, wind making his hair fly around his face, he was barely thinking at all.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been riding when he heard the Joker's voice. "Told you he'd like the pony."

"Whoa." The moment broken, he pulled gently on the reins, loosening the pressure of his legs against Nightmare's sides. The horse came to a stop and he turned them back. At some point while he was riding, it appeared that the Joker and Harley had arrived and were standing in the driveway, watching.

"It's a thoroughbred," he informed him, walking Nightmare over.

"Same difference." He turned to Harley, mouth widening into a grin. "You know the reason why horses are so popular to girls just going through puberty? It's because riding 'em is subconsciously close to sex."

Crane rolled his eyes as Harley giggled. "That is not true, puddin'."

"No, really. Think about it." He stroked Nightmare's mane, who nuzzled against his hand in appreciation. Crane reflected that this horse was far too trusting for his own good; Scarecrow reflected that horse meat was delicious. "It's this big, strong animal, right? A masculine symbol, you could say. So the girl mounts it, and _rides_ it around in a position that leaves her with her legs spread for an extended period and her body rocking against the horse when it moves."

"If that's the case," Crane said, ignoring the way Harley bit her lip in thought and nodded, "why don't horses stay popular with older girls, who should be even more in tune to their sexual feelings?"

"Because the more they know about sex, the more, uh, shame they feel playing around like that. I mean, they're not aware that they're doing it, but a lot of girls will start thinking of their love of horses as childish and lose it, especially if they just admired horses and never actually rode 'em. Whaddya think of that, Jonny?"

Harley giggled. Crane wished for a moment that they weren't friends, so he could hate her for that and not feel guilty for it. "I think that I am not a pubescent girl."

"_Mentally_—" the Joker began.

"Why are you here?" He directed the question at Harley.

"We're makin' you dinner!" she said brightly.

He imagined the Joker in the kitchen. And then the house blowing up. "No, you're not."

She pouted. "By 'we,' I meant me. Mistah J can't cook very well."

"I can cook perfectly well," he said, crossing his arms. "But only things that matter. Like, you know, bombs."

"You don't _cook _bombs." God, even taking part in this conversation was making him lose brain cells. If Harley wouldn't hate him forever—and if the attempt wouldn't fail miserably and get him killed—he'd listen to Scarecrow's current idea, which was trampling the Joker with his horse.

The Joker shrugged. "Depends on the bomb."

_Why do I get into these conversations?_ "Where did you get the house?"

"You don't like it?" He pouted. Unlike when Harley had done it, his look was far more disturbing than endearing.

"It's fine. I just don't want the owners to come back from vacation or something and call the police."

"Oh, no no no, angel. The owners are taken care of." The Joker licked his lips in a way that made Crane decide it was best not to ask for clarification. "And they'd paid the house off already, so don't worry about that."

"I'm still paying for the electricity and water, though?" he asked, dismounting.

"Well, yeah. I'm not doing everything for you, Jonny." They headed back toward the house, Joker trying to take Crane's free hand as they walked and Crane stepping away, winding his other hand a bit tighter through Nightmare's reins.

"I haven't asked you to do _anything_."

"I know. You didn't have to. Friends do things for each other without being asked."

"We're not friends."

"Not yet," Joker corrected, taking his hand and ignoring his attempts to pull away. "We will be. Your pony likes me. That's a sign, animals are excellent judges of character."

If Crane rolled his eyes any harder, he'd be risking optic nerve damage. "Or it's a sign that you won him over with sugar cubes before you gave him to me."

"What's your point?"

* * *

Harley was making lasagna, as it turned out, which Jonathan insisted on helping her with. The Joker did not help at all; in fact, Harley informed Jonathan that she'd had to ban her lover from the microwave and oven in their home, as he was absolutely incapable of making so much as soup without blowing it up. Crane took things one step further and banned him from the kitchen altogether. The Joker sulked off to watch the news while they were busy, but not before informing Crane that he'd been thoughtful enough to bring strawberry shortcake as desert. To which Crane replied that he was allergic to strawberries and that he'd told the Joker this before.

The Joker responded that he'd remembered that fact, and brought something with strawberries simply because there'd be more for himself. And then left the room before Scarecrow could get out the knives.

"What does he want, Harley?" Jonathan asked, slicing tomatoes as she grated Parmesan. He had premade tomato sauce, but she refused to use it, saying it wouldn't be the same. Jonathan had always been the type to not care how something was made so long as he could eat it and not destroy his stomach or block his arteries, but he could appreciate her effort.

"Just to be friends again."

_Right. _"I'm meant to believe that he's going through all this effort just for the sake of my company?" True, he held himself in high regard—and he deserved it, his intellect was far superior to just about everyone in Gotham—but even he wasn't proud enough to believe the Joker valued him that much. Not anymore, anyway. "I know he likes a challenge, but all this?"

"Look at it from his perspective."

"I'd rather not."

She laughed, moving from the Parmesan to the mozzarella. "All right, you remember that speech he gave you in your apartment about how he created you, and he could make or break you again if the mood struck him?"

"Yes. You could hear that from out in the hall?"

"No, but later I asked him what he said to make you come back and he summarized."

"Oh." He watched the slivers falling from the grater to slowly fill the enormous bowl beneath it. "Planning on feeding an army?"

"Shut up." She swatted a hand at him gently, not seeming to care that she didn't make contact. "You could use the leftovers. Just because you're not starving anymore doesn't mean you need to be skipping any meals. And I checked the contents of your fridge when we moved it, Jonathan," she added, with a shake of her head.

"What?" All right, so he'd come to appreciate butter pecan Ensure during his stay at Arkham. Just because he kept it on hand didn't mean that was all he ate.

"So you use that stuff as a meal _supplement_, not a substitute."

"I don't. I've never eaten breakfast, the fact that I drink it in the morning doesn't mean that I'm using it in place of food."

She shook her head again. "One of these days I'm making you breakfast."

"Fine. Just leave your boyfriend at home."

"Oh, he never gets up in the morning anyway. Thank God, because I'd never get anything accomplished around the warehouse if he did. His men certainly don't clean anything."

He moved from the tomatoes to the mushrooms, trying not to slip into a lecture on how being the Joker's indentured servant was not the same as being his girlfriend. "You were saying what about his motivations, now?"

"What? Oh yeah. Well, I think he realized how angry you are and decided that if he couldn't actually follow through on his claim to make you love him again, then he failed at villainy."

Jonathan wasn't sure whether to scoff or sigh. "Were those his exact words?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Lovely." So he'd become the Joker's project again. Like the time they'd been together, but without the fun of kissing or anything else. Well, hooray.

The Joker stuck his head through the doorway. "Hey, kitten?"

"I thought I told you not to come in here."

"I'm not, I'm not. Uptight much?" He licked his lips, continued. "I just wanted you to know that I also brought wine."

"I can't drink." He thought back on the last time he'd had anything alcoholic, and tried and failed not to blush.

The Joker smirked. "I know."

"I hate you."

He disappeared again, door swinging slightly back and forth in his wake. "Love you too, Jonny."

"I am not forgiving that son of a bitch," he informed Harley, as if she had any control over the madman's actions.

She smiled. "You know, that's what I tell myself every time we fight?"

_I am never going to end up that way again, _he told himself, holding back a shudder. Harley may be his best friend, but that didn't change the fact that her life served as a perfect example of how not to have a relationship. The Joker may have given him a house, and a horse, and scar-reducing medicine, and a whole host of other things, but he wasn't going to be stupid enough to forgive him because of that. Gifts did not demonstrate sincerity, no matter how expensive or excessive.

Still, those aluminum cranes had been kind of sweet.

* * *

AN: The bit about girls and horses comes from Desmond Morris's _The Naked Ape. _I haven't read the whole book, but the parts I have are interesting. Apparently one in eleven girls at the puberty age prefer horses to other animals, even if most of them will never have a horse or haven't ridden one.


	4. Resolution

AN: Another chapter that does the moving forward in time thing. Once again, this will soon become obvious, but just for the sake of clarity, I'm mentioning it here.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Someone was holding his hand.

He didn't know who, having his eyes shut, but he guessed that the person was male from the size of the hand in his. Another hand was brushing against his hair, stroking it out of his face. He couldn't tell if it belonged to the one holding his hand or a different person, but judging from the rocking of the mattress beneath him, only one other person was sitting on the bed.

Somewhere off in the distance, he could faintly hear the hum of the television, along with a drone that sounded like it might be a newscaster, though he couldn't make out individual words. The volume must have been turned far down, as the TV sounded miles away despite the fact that it was only on the other side of the room. He became aware of another voice, above him, quiet but slowly drawing him out of sleep.

It was a song. He focused a bit, eyes still closed, and began to pick up on words.

"…climb up my apple tree, holler down my rain barrel, slide down my cellar door, and we'll be jolly good friends, forever more."

It occurred to Jonathan that he really ought to get up. He felt like death; weak, tired, and disoriented, with a pounding headache, but not too out of it have forgotten that there shouldn't be anyone else here. He'd been living alone for the past two and a half months now—aside from the Joker and Harley's visits—and absentminded though he could be, he was fairly sure he would have noticed someone else moving in. However, he felt exhausted, and the voice and contact, though strange, was comforting. He didn't open his eyes yet, trying to place the familiar tone before he did anything else.

"Say, say, oh playmate, I cannot play with you. My dollie's got the flu—" here the hand on his hair stroked his face "—boo hoo hoo, hoo hoo hoo. Ain't got no rain barrel, ain't got no cellar door, but we'll be jolly good friends, forever more."

The voice trailed off, apparently finished, as it occurred to Jonathan that he had test subjects in his basement. A gift from the mob—regretfully, he'd had to go back to drug manufacturing to play the bills—to ensure that he'd stop ruining their business by driving all the customers mad. There were only two in the basement at present, and he'd thought they were well secured, but suppose one of them had gotten loose?

_Suppose, _he realized, as the hand moved back to his hair again, _that one of them's sitting on the bed, about to kill me?_

His eyes flew open. There was a body hovering over him, but without his glasses and with the room only illuminated by the faint glow of the television, he couldn't make out the face.

"Hello, beautiful."

_Damn it. _The mere act of realizing the Joker was there seemed to make his headache about a thousand times worse. "Why are you in my house?"

"Oh, that's nice. I save you from almost certain death, and I don't even get a thanks?"

Crane moved to sit up, and the Joker pushed him back down. He opened his mouth to protest, but stopped when he realized even attempting to get up had made the room start to spin. "What's going o—what did you do?"

"How much do you remember of the past week?"

"Er…" He racked his mind. He remembered feeling like crap, experimenting, and not much else. "I had a cold?"

"No, you had the flu," the Joker corrected, taking his hand from Crane's shoulder. He didn't try to get up again. The first time had been miserable enough. "And you're damn lucky Harley and I stopped by when we did. You were running a temperature of about, uh, a hundred and five. You'd have died." From what Crane could make out, the Joker appeared to be smirking. "You owe your life to me, Jonny. How's that feel?"

_God, I hate you. _"How long have I been out?"

"Three days."

_Hell. _That would mean he'd missed making a drug shipment. And he doubted his employers would be forgiving. "I have to get up."

"Nope." The Joker's hands were back on his shoulders, pinning him down. "I don't care if you've just figured out the compound to cause specific phobias or remove fear or what, you're not getting out of bed."

"You don't understand," he protested, teeth clenched, as he tried shoving the Joker off. It was about as effective as an ant trying to lift an elephant, he was so weak. "The men I work for—"

"The men you work for showed up yesterday, guns blazing," the Joker informed him, in a tone of perfect calm. "And it barely took a glare from me to make 'em run off with their tails between their legs. So yeah, relax. You've been given an indefinite extension."

He stopped fighting, mentally wincing at the trouble this would cause the next time he encountered the drug dealers. "So you've been living in my house for three days?"

He shook his head. "Harley has, for the most part. I've just shown up during the stretches she needed sleep. She's back at the warehouse now, and angel, you better give her your, uh, first born child or something to make up for all the stress you've put her through. She thought you were dying. Oh, and she took care of your horse."

He felt guilt at that. It wasn't as if he'd gotten sick on purpose, but Harley was the closest friend he'd ever had, and he didn't like making her worry. "I wasn't," he said, because he could think of nothing else to say. As if it was an excuse.

"Still. You've got no idea how to take care of yourself, do you? Harley was on a crusade to bring you to live with us, after you recovered."

He got a feeling in his stomach like one would get when plummeting down on a roller coaster. "That's not—"

"I know, I know, I convinced her that would be bad. You're welcome."

And just like that he was back on solid ground. "…Thank you." The Joker removed his hands again, and Crane sat up a bit, as slowly as he could. It still made the room spin. "So, you've just been sitting here watching the news while you waited for me to wake up? For three days?"

"Not just the news. TV gets pretty boring for a six hour stretch." He glanced at the screen, then back to Crane. "Especially when you're too busy taking care of some idiot scarecrow to make things more inte_rest_ing."

"So what have you been doing, then?" He spotted what appeared to be his glasses on the bedside table, reached out, slid them on. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer.

The Joker licked his lips. "Amusing myself with your DVD collection. I've gotta say, Jonny, I'm surprised."

He hoped that in the dim light, his blushing wasn't visible. The Joker had guessed, long ago, that Crane collected zombie movies, so he must have been referring to the musicals. "Just because I happen to enjoy well-written music and lyrics in a film, it doesn't—"

The clown giggled. "I wasn't referring to that, genius. I knew you'd like musicals, I mean, _c'mon._ You're gayer than a handbag full of rainbows. No, no, I meant that I'd never guess you'd be a fan of, uh, Paris Hilton's work—"

"Do not insult _Repo!_," he said, defensive. "And it just so happens that she was decent for once, and besides, it has Sarah Brightman and Anthony Stewart He—"

"Calm down, angel." The Joker's hand was over his mouth, and when Crane bit him, he only laughed. "I was joking. I watched it, it's good. Though I'd thought you said you weren't a fan of pointless gore."

"It's not—"

"_Relax._" He moved his hands to Crane's shoulders, massaging him. "You're wound tighter than a pocket watch, friend. This is why things didn't work out between us, you know."

"Funny. I thought they didn't work out because you tried to kill me."

"You tried to poison me. We're even." There was no hint of anger in the Joker's tone, and no regret. "Hey, are you hungry?"

"Not for anything you've made."

"Never covered tact in therapy, didya?" The Joker slid off the bed, not waiting for an answer. "Harley brought soup in case you woke up. All I have to do is heat it up."

"Don't burn down the house."

"It's a _microwave_, Jonny." The Joker rolled his eyes, turned for the door. "Even I can't mess that up." He exited, humming what Crane recognized as 'Zydrate Anatomy' as he did.

"I hate that clown," he muttered a few minutes later, burying his face under a pillow as the smoke alarm went off.

* * *

"Okay, so that wasn't one of my wiser moments," the Joker admitted, carrying Crane to the kitchen. "But you don't have to be so rude about it."

"You could have blown up my house," he protested, struggling. It had about as much effect as when he'd tried it back on the bed. "Let me down."

"No. You can't walk." He sat him down at the kitchen table and Crane looked around his kitchen, annoyed. It was one of his favorite rooms in the house, with the huge sliding glass doors leading to the back porch and the lovely wallpaper that was now tinged with the smoke in the room. Why the Joker hadn't opened a window was anybody's guess.

"I really hate you," he informed him, after talking the Joker through the correct use of a microwave. It seemed he'd assumed that soup didn't have to be taken out of the can first. How the clown had survived to adulthood was also anybody's guess.

"Okay," he said, nonchalant as always, before stiffening slightly and casting a glance to the doors. "Did you hear something?"

"There are deer out there all the time." Crane crossed his arms. "And I'm serious. You don't believe that I hate you?"

"I believe that _you _believe it." The Joker looked out the doors again, before taking the seat opposite his companion. "But you also believe there's nothing weird about dressing up like a scarecrow, so yeah."

Crane sighed and wished he could feel the rage he'd had for the man not so long ago. But he found that he couldn't; the Joker's gifts, along with coming over weekly for dinner and things like Monopoly, had taken the fire out of his anger. Not that he'd forgiven him, not by a long shot, but he couldn't stay enraged. It just wasn't worth the effort anymore. He propped his elbows on the table, shook his head. "What does this make us?"

"Can't it make us friends?" The Joker's eyes glittered, with either amusement or hope.

He shook his head again. "I can't ever forgive you."

"So? Lots of friends have things they've never forgiven each other for. Everyone's got something they're still mad about."

They said that the devil was a compelling speaker. If there was a devil, Crane imagined the Joker was spawned from him. "I'll never _trust _you."

"Who says you have to?" The microwave beeped, and the Joker stood, retrieved the soup, placed it in front of Crane. "Are you sure you don't hear something?"

"Stop trying to change the subject," he admonished, not bothering to point out that the Joker had neglected to provide a spoon. "How can there be friendship without trust?"

"How can grown men run the streets of Gotham in costume and not get shot? Impossible things are happening every day, Jonny."

He brushed his hair back, head aching. On one hand, this was all so stupid. On the other hand, he was sick of struggling against the Joker's plans. If experience had taught him anything, it was that the Joker always got what he wanted. Even Scarecrow had nothing to say in protest. "Fine," he muttered, barely audible even to himself.

"Come again?"

"Fine," Jonathan repeated, louder, raising his head. "I'll be your friend again."

He'd expected Joker to have an over the top reaction. He had not predicted that the Joker would pick him up bridal style and spin around, cheering, like a parent playing airplane with a small child. "Stop that, I'm going to be sick."

"Sorry." The Joker halted, though the room still seemed to be spinning. "I'm just really, really happy, angel."

"I'm never getting romantically involved with you again, got it? I love Harley too much to do that, and besides, I don't trust you."

"Who said anything about romance?" He was still grinning ear to ear. "I'm glad to have my friend back. This is fantastic. We should celebrate." Joker paused, winding a strand of hair through his fingers as he considered. "You wanna go kill one of your test subjects or something?"

"No. I want to enjoy the soup. So please get me a spoon."

"What?" He glanced at the table. "Oh. Sorry." Jonathan was dumped unceremoniously, somewhat painfully back into his chair as the Joker opened drawers. "No, no, ah. Got it." He presented the spoon as a princess might offer a knight her handkerchief.

"Thank you," he said, fighting not to roll his eyes.

"What were you experimenting on that was important enough to ignore your illness for, anyway?"

"I found a way," he began, between swallows of broth, "to isolate the toxin to a specific area of the amygdala, which means that I can use it to—"

And then the Batman came sailing through those lovely sliding doors, littering the tiles with shards of glass.

* * *

It was humiliating, really, how quickly they'd been defeated. The Joker had gotten to his feet at once, but the Batman had had the element of surprise on his side. Crane was convinced that was why he'd broken the doors, otherwise it was nothing more than unnecessary destruction of property. Legally, it wasn't technically his property, but still. He'd liked those doors.

Anyway, the Batman had tackled and subdued the Joker in record time, and hadn't even had to bother with Crane. Scarecrow had bolted up, prepared to fight, but the room started spinning again and he fell over before the Bat could touch him, zoning out just long enough for Batman to cuff him. And then they were both hauled into the Batmobile like disobedient children being dragged from the playground by their mother. Humiliating, indeed.

"Why does he get to sit next to you?" Joker whined, kicking the back of Crane's seat. It was getting annoying, fast.

"Because I don't trust you near the control panel."

"God, you accidentally fire up the jet engines once and they never let you live it down." Crane heard Joker shift in the seat behind him, suddenly bright. "Hey, Bats, guess what?"

There was a long pause, in which the Joker waited and the Batman said nothing.

"You're not guessing."

Another pause.

The Joker sighed. "You're no fun at all, you know that? _Anyway, _Jonny and I are friends again."

Crane found himself suddenly very interested in staring down at his feet.

"Bats? _Bats_? Hel_lo_? I said Jonny and I are friends again. Don't you think that's great? Aren't you glad that we're getting along and I'm not going to try and kill him or anything? Bats?" He sighed, loudly. "You kinda suck at making conversation, you know that?"

"I'm very happy for you."

And here Crane had thought he was the master of deadpan snark.

"Well, good." He heard the Joker lean back. "How'dya find us, anyway?"

"Quinzel. She's back at Arkham now."

"Ooh, good. She's gonna be so happy about this. Hey, Jonny?"

"Yes?"

"Can she and I, like, break into your cell tonight and play Scrabble or something? I know she'll wanna celebrate."

He smirked in spite of himself. "Sure. Why not?" He glanced at the Batman, staring straight ahead at the road. "Batman?"

"What?"

"Can you make sure my horse is taken care of? When you send the police for the test subjects, and things?"

The Bat exhaled, slowly. Crane realized he was annoyed and fought back the urge to giggle. "Fine."

"I mean well taken care of," he persisted. "Not abused or sold to some little girl who'll get bored after one ride and never look at him again. I don't want him up for grabs to any idiot with money to spend."

"Or a glue factory," Joker offered from the back seat.

"Yes. Not that either."

Crane wouldn't have thought it was physically possible to clench the jaw that tightly and not break something. "I'll make sure."

"Thank you," he said, and was unable to keep from laughing that time. The Joker joined him after less than a second's pause, and the two seemed to feed off each other's energy, giggling nearly the whole way to Arkham, much to the Batman's annoyance.

Scarecrow reminded him that he was a fool to agree to this and the Joker would only hurt him again. Crane retorted that he knew to be careful this time, and anyway, getting under the Batman's skin like they had made it all worth it.

* * *

AN: Obviously this is my shortest story ever, so I'll try to have the next (longer) one posted as soon as possible.

_Repo! The Genetic Opera _is a musical set in a world where organ transplants and the like can be repossessed, so that if a person can't pay off an organ transplant or a plastic surgery or something, a "Repo Man" will come and cut the implant out of him. Obviously, it's gory. And yes, Paris Hilton is in it, but she's actually not too bad and her part is small. The song Joker was humming, "Zydrate Anatomy" is from the musical; zydrate is a chemical obtained from corpses and is used as a drug/surgery anesthetic. It's on Youtube.

The other song Joker was singing is an old one, known variously as "Playmate," "Say, Say, My Playmate," "See, See, My Playmate," and other similar things. Versions of it are also on Youtube.


End file.
